


Gifts of Rain

by needchocolatenow



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8371768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needchocolatenow/pseuds/needchocolatenow
Summary: Lance is the human sacrifice to Shiro, the wind god.





	1. Sacrificial Lamb

He had known since long ago that the winds in the skies were commanded by a man that sat in the trees. The man was muscular, larger than Lance, with a horizontal scar running over his face like an embellishment of war. New, diminutive branches beneath the man impossibly supported his weight and Lance had stared and stared until his mother had dragged him along behind her in the dusty marketplace streets.

 

“Mama, there’s a man up there.” 

 

She startled. “Don’t look at him,” she whispered. “Don’t let him see you.”

 

He was certain the man saw him already. 

 

Sometimes, Lance thought he saw the quick movements of a man’s silhouette overhead, blotting out the sun. When he commented on it, the look his mother gave him was all at once scathing and sad, like her heart had become hollowed and tired and she was out of tears to shed. 

 

Lance never forgot those looks, but he never knew why she looked at him like that out of all his siblings. 

 

The man in the trees disappeared for a while and Lance put him into the back of his mind, too preoccupied with growing up and living his childish life, following a hand drawn map of combating sea pirates with broken branches and finding hidden treasures under his bed. Lance fell in love with pirates. He wanted to be one until he found out they were villains of their own making

 

With the passing of the years and the turning of the seasons, Lance slowly buried the memories of the man with the scar on his face, but it wasn’t until the worst of the drought hit that all that was brought to light again. The whole town remembered for him, uncovering the memories he’s lost, like the precious spoons and forks he would hide when he was five, pretending they were gold. 

 

“Please our God,” the townsfolk begged. Demanded. “You can see him. He chose you.” 

 

“I’m not anyone special,” Lance had responded as his mother clutched his arm, fingers tight as vices, her face set in stone. He realized three things then, about him and his mother: she had long ago come to terms with this. She had known, from the first moment Lance laid eyes on that man in the trees, that he was lost to her. She had grieved for over a decade. 

 

“Fix the drought. Bring the west wind and the rains,” the townsfolk said. 

 

Lance felt the wetness in his eyes, but refused to let them fall. He looked to his sisters, his brothers, their faces ashen and tear-streaked. Sallow and sunken and tired from hunger. His oldest sister’s belly was swollen and heavy, but she was skin and bones. 

 

Lance swallowed around the lump in his throat and looked at his mother. She was older now, no longer the young woman that lugged him around after her in the marketplace. Her hands were cold, the circulation through her extremities bad and made worse from the drought. 

 

“I love you,” he said to her. He kissed her cheeks and turned to the mob. “Do I go by fire or water?” he asked. “Or do I get to choose?”

 

“You go by knife,” said the mob. 

 

They took him from his mother, his poor grieving mother, and shuffled him off to the sorcerer’s shrine.

 

Lance was washed and patted down impersonally by the old maids with scented oils. They dressed him in thin robes of white, the color of virgin purity. On his exposed skin, nonsensical markings were placed to indicate him as a sacrifice.

 

He’d be the only one with a slashed neck; how difficult would it be to identify him? He nearly laughed then, a choking hiccup that caught in his throat, unable to come to completion.

 

When finished, Lance was led out to the back of the shrine. An altar of stone carved with care and precision sat overlooking an empty riverbed. The smell was something putrid, of rotting fish and sulfur, but Lance refused to show weakness, no matter how much he wanted to gag. 

 

Lance looked frantically around at the audience that gathered. His friends, his family; he picked them apart from the crowd, saw their drawn and sullen faces. He saw the mob, wanting their sacrifice, violence and fear tearing at their hearts. 

 

“You are a terrible god,” Lance whispered before he was forced to sit on the altar. 

 

The priest came forward with a river-lion cub, a tiny young thing with strangely patterned skin; healthy and hissing, looking for her mother. The priest ran a hand over her small muzzle and with a single stroke of his knife, slit her throat. Blood flowed like a geyser and the carcass of the cub was thrust into Lance’s lap, staining his white robes the color of death. The cub’s body twitched, the last synapsys of dying nerves firing, and Lance could no longer hold his breath.

 

It came out stuttering and haltingly, like his lungs were no longer in working condition. His fingers were buried at his side, digging so deep and so hard that he was certain he was drawing blood--not that he could tell, not with the dead cub on him. His nose was drowning in the scent of blood, his thighs were sticky with it, and his heart was pumping so hard that he wondered if it could be heard by all the audience. 

 

“These offerings are for you, O Great One of the Skies,” the priest said. “We ask for forgiveness in our tresspasses. We ask for a boon for we are suffering. Heed our prayers and we beseech you to bring the storms of harvest.”

 

Lance looked to his mother, saw the naked devastation in her eyes. He didn’t feel the grip the priest had on his hair until his head was jerked back, his eyes meeting the blue of the skies. There were no clouds overhead, just as there hadn’t been for the past four years. He scanned the treelines and found no silhouette of a man. 

 

He hoped his mother looked away. She shouldn’t see this.

 

Overhead, the sun blinked from existence for a fraction of a moment, a shadow passing by. 

 

Lance felt the coldness of the blade against his neck and the pain of destroyed muscle and tendon and skin; he couldn’t scream and cry if he wanted to and his last thought before a dark grey overtook him was: 

 

_ Don’t let me die in vain. _

 

* * *

 

Lance woke with rattling in his brain and cotton in his mouth. He opened his eyes and was met with grey, stormy as the heavens on a cloudy day. 

 

It was the man in the trees, the man with the scar. Up close he was young and handsome, something Lance had never considered before. His forelock was a startling white, but the rest of his hair was black as pitch. The beginning of laugh lines were painted into his skin, only noticeable under the light of the sun. 

 

“You’re awake,” the man said. He smiled. 

 

On Lance’s chest, the river-lion cub yawned. 

 

This was the ruler of wind, Lance thought, the man that commanded the fate of his family. 

 

“Please,” said Lance and he was startled that his throat was intact. He remembered the feel of a blade running across his neck and the numbing nothingness of death after. “Could you bring the rain clouds for my family?” 

 

The man’s smile faltered and then he reached over to brush a hand over the crown of Lance’s head. “I’m sorry,” the man said. “But there’s no water anywhere. The water spirit is gone. The storms I can bring will only be lightning and thunder, useless for crops.” 

 

Lance blinked as the man retreated from sight. 

 

They were high up in the boughs of the tallest tree outside the town. He saw the empty valley the river had left, skewering downward from the barren mountainside and onto the plains. On the dusty streets, Lance could just make out little figures of people as they moved about their daily lives. Was his mother amongst them? His brothers? Sisters? How long has it been since his sacrifice? 

 

“I died for nothing,” Lance said. He was deceased, but he felt his heart clench and beat faster at the thought of his family dying a slow, hungry death. Tears burned behind his eyes, but he blinked them away, refusing to cry. There was nothing to cry about, no regrets to be had. He didn’t fight the sacrifice because his family needed his death to live. 

 

Now, in death, he would find a way for his family to live. 

 

The cub on his chest pulled away, leaping over Lance and onto another branch, chasing an invisible string of light. Lance sat up and nearly overbalanced, but a steady gust of wind helped him right himself. 

 

“I’ll go find the water spirit,” Lance declared. 

 

The man shook his head. “I’ve tried,” he said. “Your town is where the tracks lead. The water spirit came here and,” the man made a face, “disappeared.”

 

“Then, I’ll go find water.”

 

“All the wells have dried. The springs are dead and the lakes are gone. You’ll find nothing, little one.” 

 

Lance glared. The man before him was a god--he had to know something; how could someone so powerful, a man that never aged, a man that traveled in the wind, sat on thin, new branches--how could someone like the commander of wind not know? He was hiding something. He had to be.

 

“I’m sorry.” The man truly did look sorry.

 

“Why are you here?” Lance asked. “You disappeared for so long, I forgot about you.” 

 

The man was silent for a moment, his head bowed. “I went to convene with the other gods,” he said. “The water spirit is gone and the sky goddess is in mourning. He was her father.” Then, his gaze sharpened as he looked at Lance. “We determined that a new spirit must be found. I think I may have just found him.” 

 

Lance snorted. Were all gods so strange? 

 

“I was sacrificed to you. I have no godly powers.” 

 

The man smiled again, more peaceful and serene than the softest midday breeze. “You can see me,” he said, stating the fact as plainly as day. “That is already a skill beyond mortal men.” 

 

Lance was no one special, just a boy on the cusp of manhood, dreaming of old hand drawn maps with X marks the spot, dreaming of hidden treasure and adventure on the high seas. The fact that he saw gods meant nothing. As this one before him proved, they were not all-seeing, all-knowing. 

 

“Do you have a blessing?” 

 

Lance shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.” 

 

“Something that came with you here. It is only visible to your eyes.” 

 

Lance glanced over to the river-lion cub scratching at empty air, her tiny paws outstretched as she did her best to maul something that he couldn’t see. 

 

“Yes,” he said, throat constricting around his voice. 

 

Their blood had mingled and pooled together; they were forever tied. The rattling in his head was the thrum of excitement from the cub, from her enthusiastic elation, something that Lance didn’t understand and couldn’t translate. It was primal and visceral, joyous and rapturous and simple; of finding a friend in a lonely place. 

 

“I think mine is playing with yours,” Lance said finally, tearing his eyes away from the cub. She was ignoring him completely, focused on her invisible friend. 

 

The man smiled. “I think so,” he said. 

 

“Do you have a name?” Lance asked. 

 

The man looked for a moment hesitant, and then as if coming to some personal conclusion, he nodded. “You can call me Shiro,” he said. “And you?”

 

Lance knew Shiro was only being polite. Shiro knew exactly who he was. 

 

“Lance,” he said. “My name’s Lance.” 

 


	2. Water Spirit

“I can’t do it,” Lance said. His fingers were buried in dried dirt, once the bottom of a riverbed. The ground was hard and dry, flaking and cracked in places like bark over a tree, not a drop of moisture remaining in the memory of the earth.

 

“You can do it,” urged Shiro, patient. Just as he had been for the past week since he brought Lance to the mountain’s summit. “The water is underneath your hand. You only need to pull it up.” 

 

“Should I dig instead?” Lance quipped. He was worn and tired and for someone that was dead, he didn’t think the physicality of his body would affect him so much. It wasn’t as if he could die a second time. Could he? The water spirit was gone, according to Shiro, so it wasn’t implausible that a second death from exhaustion could happen. 

 

The afterlife was a dreary, terrible place and not at all the summery paradise that had been promised. Lance would very much like to know where the monks and priests got their scriptures from because it was all wrong, so very wrong.

 

Shiro laughed. “Shall I get you a shovel?” 

 

It was Lance’s turn to chuckle. The flimsy white sacrificial robe that was his only set of clothes was dusty and brown from the hours he spent in the dirt, parts of it made translucent from sweat. Overhead, the sun beat down relentlessly, too bright, too hot, sapping Lance of whatever strength he had. 

 

Bored and sleepy, the river-lion cub nudged against Lance in his mind, a litany of wordless questions and coiled energy that boiled down to the point of:  _ are you done yet _ ? 

 

He wasn’t done. He wasn’t sure he would ever be finished, not until the drought was over and his family safe. Then, maybe.

 

But for now, a reprieve was needed. Or perhaps, a change in tactic. There was no headway being made here, no matter how hard Lance thought at the water, thought about it, and even tried to think as it. The ground didn’t shake, the skies didn’t shed a drop, and everywhere around him was a dead yellowed land.

 

“I don’t think this is working,” he confessed to Shiro. “I can’t feel the water. All I feel is dirt.” He held out his hands, palms up, empty except for the heavy coating of dried, dusty earth. 

 

Shiro grimaced. “We’ll try again later, then,” he said. “You have time.” He reached forward and helped Lance to his feet.

 

Lance wished that was true. For someone that was dead, his time was limited; every second, minute, hour that went by with no results was wasted. His town was dying, his family with it, and he was kneeling in dirt pretending to be the new water spirit. His stomach gnawed at his heart and his heart pressed against his lungs, every breath hard and painful to take. 

 

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be looking for someone else? Another water spirit, perhaps?” he asked. Tried to hide his jitters behind a tired smile.

 

Shiro’s eyes softened as he brushed the dust from the back of Lance’s knuckles. “You are it,” he said, quiet and earnest. The conviction in his words brought Lance’s gut to tumbling cartwheels, sending unpleasant guilty waves crashing upon his conscience. “I know you don’t believe it right now, but I know. I was like you, once.” 

 

“A sacrificial lamb?” Lance didn’t believe it. 

 

Shiro was silent, the grip he had on Lance’s hands turning to stone. Then, he sighed, all the rigidity his his posture escaping through his breath as he hung his head. 

 

“Yes,” he admitted, slow. The scar over his face stood out against his skin, dark and cragged, under the brightness of the sun. “In a different age. In another time.” He attempted a smile, but it was just a motion of his lips, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Fly with me?”

 

It was phrased like a question, but it was not a request. Lance walked to him, laid his head against Shiro’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around the back of the other man’s neck. 

 

Shiro was strong like an ox and built like one too. With one arm, he secured Lance to him and with the other, he called a howling gale to bring them up high. 

 

Leaving the ground was the hardest thing for Lance. He had jumped from the roof of his house before--completely by accident--and in those scant moments when there was nothing beneath him, it felt like his insides had been trying to escape through his mouth. Here and now, he only had Shiro to cling to as they flew over the mountain, stepping upon the winds in the heavens as if they were cobbled stones settled into the ground. 

 

From below, the little cub yipped her excitement, chasing after them with impossible leaps and bounds as she made her way down the mountain. She practically looked like she was flying herself, the shine of her fur reflecting the blue of the skies. 

 

“Before I became the wind,” began Shiro, his voice in Lance’s ear steady and voltaic, sending invisible sparks skittering across Lance’s skin and down the bones of his spine. “I belonged to a god of war. All I knew was violence and bloodthirst that when I was emancipated from that god, I was lost. The sky goddess told me that I could become the wind, commander of summer breezes and spring gales. How could I, a nameless soldier, be such a god?” 

 

Shiro’s eyes met Lance’s, a shimmer of melancholy within. Their faces were so close together, Lance could count each of Shiro’s individual eyelashes. “It wasn’t easy. It took years. All I could do in those early days was despair in quiet; when the dam broke, I brought cyclones onto humanity. But it was through that experience that I discovered the power had always been within me. The wind had chosen me to command it, just as the water has chosen you. You have only yet to understand it.”

 

There was nothing adequate for Lance to formulate a reply, but it seemed that Shiro hadn’t been looking for one. He let Shiro’s words seep into his mind, let it thread into his heartbeat and his bloodstream, taking it in and mulling over the hidden hints. 

 

“I should be depressed?” 

 

Shiro barked a laugh, unexpected and pleasant. “No!” he said. “No. I don’t want to see you sad. The power of the wind came to me when I was at my lowest point; it was easiest to harness when in an emotional state, at least back in the early days. Perhaps it’s what you need too--an extreme emotional state.”

 

Lance’s stomach gave a little lurch. He didn’t like where this was going. “Extreme frustration didn’t work,” he managed to grit out. “What’s next on the list?”

 

The fingers resting on his hips tightened just a fraction. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want to see you sad,” said Shiro. “Tell me, Lance, where in all the world do you want to go the most?” The smile he gave was dazzling and brilliant, eyes alit with muted joy. 

 

Lance clung on just that much tighter. 

 

Lance wondered if he would ever find peace like that, a balance between happiness and all the ugliness that was welled up in his heart. He pushed those thoughts aside as he felt an answering tug of a grin spread across his face, the bubbling of childhood coming to the surface as an image, an answer to the question. 

 

A horizon, a blue that was mirrored both up and down as far as the eye could see. Water and waves, the scent of salt and cries of gulls. He had never been there, but he had read extensively about it as a child. 

 

“The sea,” Lance answered, his breath catching in his throat. “I want to go to the sea.” 

 

* * *

 

The sea was a month’s journey from Lance’s hometown. The road was long and unforgiving, winding between mountains and into low, rocky valleys. Bandits were the least of anyone’s problems there, as water along the route was scarce and food even scarcer. Beasts roamed the open plains the road was built on. There was only one person that Lance had ever known to travel to the sea and back until one day, they didn’t; Lance wasn’t sure if they had been spirited away or just simply climbed into a wooden boat and sailed away. 

 

A journey that should have taken a month took Shiro half a day. 

 

“The sea,” Shiro announced, touching down on pearl white sand, made all the brighter in the light of the moon.

 

The sea was a canopy of color, reflecting the navy and violets of the heavens, the thick mists of starlight piercing through the shroud like pinpricks of snow on blackened glass. Rushing waves rolled along the sand, the noise a foreign sound to Lance, who instantly committed it to memory. 

 

“It’s true,” Lance blurted as he inhaled. “It’s all true. I can smell the salt!” 

 

He let go of Shiro to run headlong into the water. It was cold--almost freezing--but this was the  _ sea _ . Salt stained his lips and stung his eyes and half-buried memories of childhood came rushing up with the oncoming waves. 

 

Sirens and sailors, pirates and armadas; Lance had lived through all those lives and then some. But he had never actually seen or been  _ here _ before and the numbing, cold salt water was a dream come true. 

 

He floated easily on his back, letting the waves push and pull his body where it wanted. Hovering just above him, keeping a watchful eye, was Shiro, lips tugged into a gentle smile. 

 

“Do I have dominion over the seas and oceans?” Lance asked. 

 

“With time, perhaps,” Shiro answered. “And only if the sea gods retire.” 

 

Lance pouted. He would have liked to rule the seas, he thought. The adventures he could have, the people he’d meet; the possibility was as endless as the horizon. Perhaps, he’d even find uncharted islands, searching the world for its hidden treasures.

 

A slow tug of yearning pulled at his gut, making his chest ache and his eyes water. Lance took a deep breath, held it in his lungs, and submerged beneath the waves. Underneath was nothing but an endless grey, only pierced in parts by the faint illumination of the moon. Maybe, if he focused hard enough, he could see faint shapes of small schools of fish swim below him. 

 

Lance kicked his feet, swimming in slow, lazy circles, diving deeper into the water. In time, his vision cleared and the murkiness of the sea dissipated, replaced by a clarity that put daylight to shame. 

 

The white sand of the beach stretched all the way out, ending just before a jutting underwater cliff in the distance. Coral of every color sat in the shallows and tiny little fish darted to and fro into unseen crevices. Lance swam closer, wanting to touch, wanting to just see and absorb everything, when an arm yanked him backwards. 

 

Lance sputtered as he surfaced. Shiro had him in a vice-like grip, face pale in the moonlight. 

 

“What? What’s wrong?” he asked. 

 

At first, Shiro didn’t respond. The hand on Lance’s arm, despite having a bruising hold, trembled. 

 

“Shiro?”

 

“You were going under,” Shiro said. “Any deeper and I wouldn’t have been able to...you would have been of my sight.” 

 

Worry. He had been worried.

 

Lance smiled, a blooming warmth radiating from his heart as he pressed his cold, wet hands to the sides of Shiro’s face, cupping it as gently as he could. “I’m fine,” he said. 

 

Shiro’s quirk of lips was wry. “I can see that. How do you feel?” 

 

“Good,” Lance admitted. “Maybe sad. I never got the chance to come here when I was alive, to see this with my family. But I suppose, I’m mostly happy.” He pressed his hands firmer to Shiro’s face, holding the man’s attention. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

 

A small noise behind them drew Lance’s attention. It was the river-lion, chasing the rolling tide. How it ran from the mountains and to the sea and still had energy left was a mystery to Lance. 

 

“Do you think you can try bringing up the waters again?”

 

The question caught Lance by surprise. “Yes, I think so.” 

 

“Come,” said Shiro, taking to the skies, pulling Lance along with him. 

 

They flew along the coast until they reached a small, quiet port. It was mostly dark, but there were still a few lanterns lit amongst some buildings that lined the streets. Shiro led Lance over to a well that stood behind a tall white shrine that looked identical to the one in Lance’s hometown. There was even an altar carved of stone, though this one sat on a high pedestal of stairs.

 

Memories of a knife across his throat rose, unbidden, and Lance quashed the thoughts viciously. He didn’t want to remember that day. 

 

Shiro gestured wordlessly to the well and Lance leaned over, looking into it. An endless darkness looked back and even without visibility, Lance knew that it was empty. 

 

“Try,” Shiro urged, his voice quiet. 

 

Lance didn’t know what he was trying for, couldn’t comprehend what it meant to have power over water; but here he was, in the presence of a god, and that had to count for something. Had to mean something. 

 

He shut his eyes and thought about the sea, the feeling of the chilly water running over his body, the waves that caressed him as he floated on them. The bright colors of the reefs. The fishes that he tried to touch. The way the salt stung his eyes, making them water, but he still fought against biology to open them underwater, just so he could see. How happy he was to be diving into the depths, to swim. 

 

A deep elation had built up in his lungs and he breathed it out, slow and steady as a sigh. He imagined water bubbling out from the bottom of the well, rising upwards, climbing steadily to the top. 

 

There was a pop and a burbling sound and Lance opened his eyes to peer down into the well. He couldn’t see anything.

 

“Is there water?” 

 

Shiro frowned. “Let’s see,” he said, throwing himself over the precipice before Lance could protest. 

 

He landed with a resounding splash somewhere deep below. Shiro laughed, the noise echoing. “You did it!” Shiro flew back up, trailing water behind him, a bright grin on his face. “I knew you could do it,” he said. “I’ve never lost faith in you.”

 

Lance laughed too, loud and shaky and relieved. “You were right,” he said, “about the emotional state.” His happiness was threatening to spill out of his throat and into the streets. He couldn’t stop grinning. 

 

The light in Shiro’s eyes twinkled. “I’m always right.” 

 

Lance swatted at Shiro’s arm, still laughing, but Shiro caught him by the wrist and drew him close. “I think I’m also right about this,” he murmured. 

 

“Oh,” Lance breathed when he felt Shiro’s mouth pressed against his. Lips slid against lips, pleasant and heady. “ _ Oh. _ ” 

 

He could feel the answering smile on Shiro’s face as they kissed, gasping audibly when wandering hands moved over his ribs, blunt nails tracing an invisible path down his sides. He tilted his head, imitating the movements of Shiro’s mouth against his, kissing back as well as he could. 

 

Never had Lance ever dreamed of kissing a god. He had not been particularly devout in life, but if he had known what Shiro was truly was like--well. Perhaps he’d have paid more attention. Shiro kissed like perfection, sensual and confident all rolled into one. Lance could die and ascend to the fields of heaven happy.

 

“I want to bed you,” said Shiro, his voice deep and rumbling against the curve of Lance’s ear, sending all of Lance’s nerves to fire. 

 

“Please,” he gasped, arching into Shiro’s touch. 

 

Strong arms hefted him up and Lance didn’t hesitate to wrap his legs around Shiro’s waist, locking his ankles behind Shiro’s back. He mouthed at Shiro’s jaw, his neck, collarbone. Ran his hands down Shiro’s chest. Whatever he could touch that wasn’t covered by clothes. Shiro’s skin was so warm against the tip of Lance’s fingers. 

 

“I need to--stop that,” Shiro said, though he hardly sounded like he wanted Lance to stop. 

 

“Please,” Lance said again, dragged out and coming out more broken and erotic than he intended. 

 

Shiro made a noise almost like a groan before he launched them through the second story window of the nearby inn. Lance found himself dumped abruptly on a bed as Shiro rifled through a set of drawers.

 

“Did you just break a window?” Lance asked, staring at the broken wood of the shutters. 

 

“The storm broke it,” Shiro replied, crowding into Lance’s space and pushing him further down onto the bed until he laid on his back. 

 

Lance sniggered. “Liar. There’s no storm.” 

 

Shiro kissed him, slow and sweet. “There will be,” he whispered, his words tickling Lance’s mouth. 

 

Outside, Lance could hear the beginnings of a wailing wind whirling past. It seemed to only excite him further to know that all that, Shiro did for him. 

 

Lance whined, high and in the back of his throat. He tugged at their clothes, attempting to pull them off in haste, and Shiro was of no help, too busy littering kiss marks down the expanse of Lance’s neck. Finally, when the clothes got in his way, he let Lance up enough to wriggle out of them. 

 

“Yours too,” Lance said, plucking at the top of Shiro’s shirt. It had obviously seen better days, but that thought was instantly discarded when Shiro shed his clothes. 

 

Heat crept up his cheeks and over his ears and Lance had never been so glad for the dark. 

 

“Like what you see?” Shiro sounded amused. 

 

“Very,” Lance replied, tugging Shiro to him, unashamedly pressing their bodies together. A heavy, heated weight settled against his thigh, sending shivers of anticipation down his spine. He brought their mouths to meet in an open mouthed, filthy kiss that left the both of them panting and aching.

 

“I want to feel you,” Lance groaned, arching up and grinding their hardness together, moaning at the feel. It wasn’t enough. 

 

Shiro choked and then laughed. “I should have known you’d have a mouth on you even in bed.” He kissed Lance once, twice. “Patience brings rewards.” 

 

Lance was patient, sometimes. He couldn’t be, not now, not with Shiro pressed against him, between his legs and all he wanted was what Shiro had to give. To hell with patience. 

 

“Please,” Lance whispered. “Shiro.” 

 

And Shiro--he looked torn and wrecked. Lance kissed him again, dirty and rough, with more biting than tongue, full of intent. Something within Shiro flared to life. Lance felt it in the shift of muscles, and he found himself on his front, ass in the air as oil was poured over him. 

 

A digit breached him, and then two, and when they pressed against the secret, sensitive spot within his body, all Lance saw was white starbursts clouding his vision. Shiro pressed hot, suckling kisses to the back of his neck as he scissored Lance open, his fingers relentless as he worked. 

 

A litany of words fell from Lance’s mouth, all of them blurring together as he babbled, but he was certain he was begging Shiro for more. When a third finger was inserted into him, Lance came, his whole body shuddering. 

 

“Beautiful,” he thought he heard Shiro say, but his ears were stuffed with cotton and the fire in his veins were still burning. Concentration was difficult. Wind howled against the rafters, and oddly, Lance thought there were raindrops clattering against the roof. 

 

Shiro’s fingers slipped out of him and Lance whimpered at the feeling of emptiness. It didn't last long. Shiro’s cock pressed against his entrance and then slowly, carefully, Shiro sank into him. 

 

Lance bucked, nearly dislodging Shiro. He was so big, stretching Lance wide--it was more Shiro’s fingers had prepared him for. 

 

But Shiro was patient and held him steady, his hands no doubt leaving bruises on Lance’s hips. He pushed deeper and deeper, opening Lance up in a way he had never before. 

 

“You’re doing good, so good-- _ ah, holy mother-- _ you’re so tight--”

 

Through it all, Lance couldn't stem the noises from his mouth, the gasps and moans that fell from his lips. Finally, when Shiro was fully sheathed inside, Lance let out a mewling wail. He hadn't even been aware he could make such a noise.

 

Kisses were being pressed into his shoulder blades, a tongue flicking over his skin to lap at the sweat. Lance wasn’t sure how, but he was getting hard again, could feel the way the blood pooled in his groin.

 

“I’m going to move,” Shiro said, his voice sounding far away.

 

Lance nodded, his face pressed against the bed.

 

Each slide, each slow, measured thrust furthered his pleasure, clouding his mind until he was practically rutting back against Shiro. Shiro was doing his damned hardest to drive Lance crazy on his cock and it was working.

 

“S-Shiro-- _ oh, gods-- _ I’m coming--”

 

Shiro reached around, engulfed Lance’s dick in his hand, and just like that, Lance was coming again. White exploded in his vision and he was acutely aware of the increasingly erratic movements from Shiro.

 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” The profanity falling from Shiro’s mouth was an unexpected warning as he snapped his hips once, twice, and then he too was coming, spilling his seed inside Lance.

 

He fell, boneless and heavy onto Lance, who laughed into the bedding. “Oh gods,” he moaned, wriggling so he could turn around. Shiro had essentially trapped him in place.

 

He faced Shiro, who smiled sleepily at him. 

 

“Can we do that again?” Lance asked. The heady thrum of sex still lingered under his skin, the pounding of his heart still too loud in his ears. 

 

Shiro chuckled and pressed a kiss to the spot between Lance’s eyes. “I’m not that young anymore, you’ll have to give me some time,” he said. 

 

Lance grinned. “Alright, old man,” he replied as Shiro swatted his buttock with no real force. 

 

“You should see what you’ve made.” Shiro gestured to the broken window, expression soft and indulgent. Lance craned his neck to see what Shiro was talking about and for the first time in a long while, Lance saw the soft showers of the rain falling. 

 

Eyes widening, he slipped out of bed to stand next to the window. He cupped his hands, incredulous, as the water slipped into them. He knew beyond a shadow of doubt that what he held wasn’t the salty sea, but genuine rainwater, the kind that fields used to grow crops, the kind that people drew from wells and consumed.

 

He lifted his hands to his lips and drank, letting the liquid flow over his tongue, down his throat. 

 

In the streets, darkened figures of people laughed, bringing out buckets and bins and pots, collecting all the water that they could. Jumping through puddles, invisible to all, was the river-lion cub. She was hardly paying any attention to Lance, too busy frolicking to care.

 

Lance clambered back into bed, letting Shiro wrap his large arms around him, holding him close. A swell of emotions clogged at Lance’s throat and Shiro, knowing without words, soundlessly kissed him, long and sweet. 

 

“We’ll go back to your town tomorrow,” Shiro said, his breath tickling the crown of Lance’s head. 

 

“Promise?” Lance asked and managed to contain his laughter at the look Shiro leveled at him. 

 

“Of course,” Shiro replied, indignant.

 

Lance smiled, pressing his face against Shiro’s broad chest as he listened to the sound of rain pouring down. It was thrilling to know that he had managed to pull the water from the skies, that he had brought for the people of this little port town hope and happiness. Tomorrow, he thought as he twined his and Shiro’s fingers together, he’ll go home and give to his family what they desperately needed, what he had died for. 

 

To them, he would present all the gifts of rain. 

 

### End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Thanks for reading! :D Somehow, Shance has taken over my soul...I have no idea how. It's like, one day I just tripped and fell into this hole in the ground and all I saw was Shance. 
> 
> Also, there needs to be more Shance fics in the world.


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